The Life and Adventures of Lyle Clemens

by John Rechy

  If you ain’t got a father but you got a beautiful mamma—

  He revised: “… but you got a beautiful Sylvia.”

  “Where did you get that?” Sylvia questioned him when he returned home with the guitar.

  “I went back to that shop and bought it,” Lyle told her so she wouldn’t be reminded that he continued to walk out of the classroom.

  4

  Lyle’s unique popularity is rewarded; Sylvia Love responds. A prophetic warning from Clarita.

  His odd popularity at school baffled Lyle, especially on the morning when all the upper grades were called into the school auditorium—which had the flags of Texas and the United States crisscrossed evenly on its stage—for “announcements.” Today’s assembly was to reveal who had been nominated for school offices. This was done by “secret ballot,” individual students having gathered petitions. The principal read off the names of the nominees.

  “—and Lyle Clemens.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been nominated to run for president of the school,” said the principal, a fat man who had greeted the announcement of each candidate with exuberant clapping to show his impartiality.

  “What?”

  “I said, you’ve been nominated—”

  Lyle looked around for some clue as to what had occurred. The very pretty dark-haired girl he often stared at lowered her head as if to show that his glances turned her bashful. Girls near her nudged her. She had radiant olive skin, eyes the color of toasted almonds.

  “I don’t know why, but I’m running for president of the school,” Lyle told Sylvia and Clarita.

  “You must win,” Sylvia greeted the news as if it was inevitable. Her look cautioned Clarita not to interfere.

  Clarita closed her eyes, courting a vision. “He’ll win,” she predicted. “Easily.” She opened her eyes. “But watch what you do,” she told Sylvia.

  Sylvia bought poster paper, crayons, water colors, poster paints, markers, scissors. She placed all those on the dining room table that Clarita had decorated with artificial flowers. Posters were essential in Lyle’s campaign, posters that couldn’t be ignored.

  “Perhaps the flag of Mexico and the United States, crossed?” Clarita offered.

  “Ordinary,” Sylvia rejected.

  Lyle listened, every now and then plucking a chord on the guitar he kept in his locker at school and carried home with him. When either Clarita or Sylvia made a point he agreed with, he would pluck a lovely sound—if he disagreed, he would make a protesting twang. Now he sang:

  If ya wanna win at somethin’, you gotta care deep,

  and me, I tellya, I don’t even know what I’m runnin’ for—”

  “That’s an awful song, Lyle,” Sylvia protested, “but you sing it really nice.”

  “Perhaps a suggestion of the Holy Mother—?” Clarita offered. “Just a ghostly outline, like the one that appeared to me in the hills of Chihuahua.”

  Lyle made a sweet note, for Clarita and the Holy Mother.

  “Well—“Sylvia remembered the glamorous woman she still went to visit at the Catholic church. “It sounds good. But I’m not sure—” She stood up, placed her hands on her hips, and moistened her lips, posing for a few moments. “His poster has to yank the attention of everyone, everyone! He has to win.”

  Clarita marveled at the fact that, for the first time in her recent memory, Sylvia was missing some of her “bracing nips.”

  Armed with her arsenal of supplies, she withdrew to her own room—she had always been good at drawing—and she went about preparing the poster from which others would be copied and that would assure Lyle’s victory.

  “VOTE FOR LYLE CLEMENS!” Lyle read aloud from Sylvia’s poster she was unveiling. Almost at the same time, he gasped, “Wow!”

  On the poster was a drawing of a beautiful young woman in a bathing suit.

  Did Sylvia realize she had drawn herself? Jesucristo, keep us from disaster! Clarita prayed.

  5

  The eye of the beholder.

  “Those posters have to come down,” Mr. Bean told Lyle, summoned to his office.

  “Why?” He had proudly had them copied, and the boys that followed him around had put them up all over the school.

  “They’re dirty,” the tight-lipped man managed to squeeze out of his lips, “the drawing of this woman is disgusting!”

  He couldn’t finish his sentence because Lyle’s fist popped him on the side of his cheek—not on the mouth, and not hard, just enough to stand up for Sylvia’s drawing.

  Mr. Bean was so humiliated he didn’t report the incident.

  Lyle didn’t know what to tell Sylvia. He consulted Clarita.

  “You punched the cabrón?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. But now we don’t want to hurt Sylvia.” She thought: The last thing she needs is to imagine that she lost again. “The posters have to come down?”

  “He took them down himself,” Lyle told her.

  “We’ll tell her—I know! We’ll tell her that the figure she drew was so beautiful that in the middle of the night the posters were stolen by admiring boys.”

  “Can you blame them?” she asked Sylvia when she told her that later.

  Sylvia smiled. “But Lyle—?”

  “He’ll win anyway, because the posters already had their impact.”

  Lyle didn’t win, despite the best efforts of the beautiful girl’s friends and the boys who saw Lyle as their hero. Lyle did nothing to support his candidacy, he didn’t care at all and had never even wondered what he’d do if he won. The only thing that bothered him—other than that Sylvia’s posters had been criticized—was that, on meeting the pretty girl he was sure now had been behind his nomination, she looked very sad before she managed her prettiest smile—and then she ran away to her friends, pretending to faint at whatever rush of emotion had overcome her.

  By that evening, the joy of having her pictures stolen had faded, and Sylvia turned darkly moody. “We lost.”

  6

  About love, hate, and desire, and the invisible demarcation that separates them.

  The more Sylvia Love came to hate Lyle Clemens the First, the more she realized how deeply she loved him. That confusion occurred because what she hated him most for was taking away what he had brought to her.

  The feeling of being desired, appreciated—and loved. He could not have pretended any of it. There had been ample manifestations. The way he made love to every part of her had made her tingle with life. His words!—the way, he augmented their lovemaking by speaking it all aloud. His joyous laughter! A cherished, banished laughter that echoed when she woke each morning, cherished laughter that faded when she reached out next to her, and there was—

  No one.

  Never mind! She was proud of this: If anything, she was prettier now than ever. Certainly she could attract someone else who would love her even more. There was an army base in the outskirts of Rio Escondido, the only town available to recruits after a brief bus ride. On weekends, young soldiers roamed the streets, usually ending up at a certain popular bar. Sylvia liked to walk past it, welcomed the laughter and music spilling out into the placidity of Rio Escondido. Of course she wouldn’t go in. Still, she welcomed the expressions of admiration; often some soldiers came out to see her walk by. At times she allowed herself a flirtatious look back, letting her skirt whip up just a bit in her Miss America walk. Perhaps she could be attracted to one of those good-looking men. Once, she even paused to be approached—allowing one to introduce himself, and that was that.

  At work, she discussed perfumes with men who wandered over to her counter at the Fashion Store with no intention of buying a perfume. She told herself she might allow something more, dinner, yes; why not? But she turned down invitations. She would even, at times, imagine herself with another man—that one handsome soldier, say, imagined herself with him, naked on white sheets—her body on display for him to anticipate, one leg over the other, yes, and his body tanned
except for the line where he would have been wearing army shorts as he did his duties, and their bodies pressing—when, then, she would imagine that, beginning to succeed in considering a possibility, the memory of Lyle Clemens the First would shove everything aside as brashly as he had shoved into her life, obliterating even the fantasy of another man.

  The thought of the act she had allowed with Armando recurred with a sense of desolation. There was no question in her mind—none at all, none, she told herself—that her son was Lyle the First’s. Every day he became a younger version of him.

  Once, she heard Lyle’s laughter before she had entirely wakened, and she had thought, Lyle the First is back!

  Never! She never allowed herself to expect that man to return, never, never, never. Even if he came back—She felt her heart flutter. Even then, she would reject him.

  Those thoughts led her to take a few extra swallows of her liquor, alone, no longer allowing Clarita into her solitary moments.

  7

  A declaration of undying love.

  “Where do you think you’re going, young lady!” said the general science teacher when the pretty young woman with cascades of dark wavy hair was walking out of his class after Lyle. This was the farthest she had gone in her attempt to join him, having been halted by the arrogant teacher during several earlier attempts.

  This day as Lyle moved toward his destination, the abandoned field—after stopping to get his guitar from his locker—the pretty girl caught up with him. He turned to face her.

  He shook his head, reeling at the sight of her, so close, alone with him. Her slightly dark-hued skin was framed by a corona of black hair that gleamed naturally. Her body was—Lyle had to twist one leg over the other—and almost stumbled when his boots tangled—to conceal the fact that he might become aroused. Did his cock have a life of its own, like his fists?

  The girl lowered her eyes as if bashful, and then looking up at him as if she had managed to overcome her shyness, she said, “My name is Maria, and I love you with all my heart and soul, and I will love you forever.”

  Then why the hell did she run away? Lyle wondered.

  8

  Unwelcome news, quiet plotting.

  “She’s a beauty, all right, and she’s Mexican, like me,” Clarita informed Sylvia.

  “Who are you babbling about?” Sylvia felt an immediate pang of anger, not at Clarita but at whomever she was talking about. She had heard the spoken words, had only pretended not to.

  “A young girl, Lyle’s age, mujer. When I went for the groceries late the other day, I saw him walking along with her. Not really with her. He was walking backwards, looking at her as if he didn’t want to miss a glimpse of her. She was staring up at him—she’s somewhat short—as if she couldn’t believe how handsome he is—and he is, you know. Ay! If I had known him when I turned beautiful after I stumbled in Chihuahua.”

  Sylvia turned up the television, to interrupt Clarita’s news. She didn’t succeed.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if, soon—”

  Sylvia raised the television even more.

  “Are you losing your hearing, or are you angry because someone other than you is pretty?”

  Sylvia raised the television higher, drowning further words.

  Clarita knew she’d heard everything and was plotting … something.

  9

  A mysterious confrontation.

  Boldly, Sylvia walked up to the soldier—he wasn’t in uniform but she had seen him at the bar—who had twice driven by her house and parked at the time she usually came home from work; today he had got out of his car. He was handsome, blond, tanned, with a crooked smile.

  Probably, a corporal, Clarita conjectured as she spied them through her window, keeping the curtains discreetly close so she would not be seen. Now what was Sylvia saying to him?

  “I’ve seen you loitering around my house,” Sylvia said to the soldier.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve bothered you. It’s just that,” the soldier said, “I saw you once—and—the first time—I thought, wow, that woman’s got it all over any Miss America!”

  “What?”

  “I said, you got it all over any Miss America. Another time when I was with my buddies, one of them said you even walked like Miss America. You could be!”

  “Oh—” Sylvia closed her eyes, remembering. “My name’s Sylvia Love Clemens.”

  “My name’s Tristram Jones,” the soldier said.

  “That’s a funny name.”

  “I know, everyone says so, but it’s my name, really.”

  She thought he was about to salute, to verify his name.

  “There’s a new restaurant I heard about, I haven’t been there. It’s called the Lamplighter, it’s supposed to be the best. They even require reservations. You think—?”

  Sylvia was no longer listening. Lyle the Second was walking toward her, just as she had known he would be, at this time, coming home from his job.

  “I’m sorry,” Sylvia said to the soldier, “but—another time?”

  “When? Soon?” He waited for her answer.

  She withheld it until Lyle had almost reached them. Then she shook her head, No. Lyle approached—smiling.

  Smiling! Hadn’t he seen her with that good-looking soldier?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  1

  Lyle’s nature is further manifested.

  I am sorry to tell you, ma’am,” Mr. Bean was pleased to have another opportunity to inform Sylvia Love of her son’s transgressions, “that Lyle was seen trying to kiss a girl in the classroom.”

  Sylvia refused to show her anger. “Did the girl run away from him? Are his grades suffering?”

  “No, ma’am, either way. He manages all those A’s.” He shook his head in bafflement. “And! He’s announced he won’t take driver’s education because he likes to walk and run.”

  “He does,” Sylvia said flatly.

  Mr. Bean released the next words as if he was firing a bullets at her: “He stole from another child!”

  “He did not!” Sylvia was about to walk out.

  “Hold your horses. You ask him yourself, ma’am. He’s outside. Send Lyle in,” he called through the door to a mousy secretary, who had sniffed jealously at Sylvia, as if her sweet perfume—which she dabbed on when she left the counter at work each afternoon to disguise her midday “nip”—had displeased her.

  There stood Lyle, smiling at his mother. She stood next to him, to indicate that she was unshaken by the accusation. “Lyle, this man dared to tell me that you stole—”

  “I did,” Lyle said.

  “—from another student,” Sylvia had not heard his admission.

  “I did steal.” Lyle touched her, to bring her attention to his words.

  “No, you didn’t!” Sylvia refused. She knew Lyle too well to accept that, that he had attempted to kiss a girl—probably the one Clarita had told her about—that wasn’t difficult to believe; he was Lyle the First’s son. She could deal with that in another way, another time.

  “I did. I stole from that piggy guy who called me an amoeba once—”

  “—a what?”

  “—an amoeba, because they don’t have fathers, and I don’t either.”

  Sylvia held her breath. She would not reveal her sadness to this terrifying assistant principal and the mousy woman, who was also in the room, hoping things would go wrong.

  “He brings lots of food, and he places it next to him during lunch, on a bench, showing it off—he gobbles most of it, but sometimes he throws some of it away, and I just walked up and took a couple of sandwiches from him—” Lyle was explaining easily.

  “See?” Mr. Bean was triumphant. “He’s a thief!”

  The mousy secretary made an attempt at a clucking sound, which sounded more like the click-click of dentures.

  “—and I gave them to that kid who brings only a piece of bread to eat, and he hides so no one will know, and I kept thinking how awful it would feel to go hungry like that. I f
elt a lot of em-pa-thy—”

  “What!” The mousy woman was taken aback by the unexpected word.

  “Em-path-y for the down-trotten,” Lyle repeated, knowing Clarita would approve, “and I gave him the sandwiches.”

  Sylvia smiled, welcoming Lyle’s act. She faced the distressed assistant principal and the mousy woman, who reeled back as if she thought Sylvia might assault her. “You see! Lyle did not steal. He did an act of goodness. I gave him my permission to do it when he consulted me.” Halfway to the door, she turned back, addressed the man and the woman, “I’m assuming that you will remedy the situation of the hungry boy now that you know about it so that Lyle won’t have to provide another act of misunderstood kindness.”

  Bristling, the assistant principal reminded her: “He keeps walking out!”

  Sylvia halted. “Walking out?”

  Outside, she said to Lyle, “Now what the hell makes you think you can walk out just like that, and kiss whoever the hell you want, Lyle Clemens?”

  Lyle didn’t answer because it had seemed to him that she hadn’t really expected him to.

  As they proceeded home, he heard a distant but loud commotion. Sylvia did, too. She stopped, listening. A cacophony of voices—shouts, shrieks, noisy singing—was coming from—

  The Pentecostal Hall.

  It was again the time of the seasonal Gathering of Souls.

  2

  A command from beyond the grave?

  What am I holding in my hand? Sylvia Love wondered, as she stared down at the harsh-black object.

  When had she gotten up from her favorite chair? When had she opened the door to the closet where she had thrust everything that belonged to Eulah Love? When had she rummaged through those old boxes?—scattered on the floor where she had pushed them in and closed the door on them? When had she done all that, to find this horrifying thing in her hands, to find—

  Eulah’s black Bible.